The Clock Opera
by Onyxx-09
Summary: There is an orchestra of clocks that, from the moment one is born, it begins counting down. Once for the moment one meets their soulmate and the other when they die. Both are represented by a randomly placed, intricate, and sometimes vague mark indented in one's skin. To some it's a right of passage, to some a curse, others a relief. Soul mate marks canon-adjacent AU, rare pairs.
1. The run-down

_**The Clock Opera:**_

 _It's the cosmos; there is an orchestra of clocks that, from the moment one is born, it begins counting down. Two of the main times the clock chimes are for the moment one meets their soulmate and the other when they die. Both are represented by a randomly placed, detailed, and sometimes vague mark indented in one's skin. The timing of when one gets this mark varies from person to person, as well as the mark received. Whom the mark is intended for will immediately know their mark when it is seen, but may not initially know whose mark it is on their own body._

* * *

 **Rare pairs:**

Or rare pairing. A pairing that is rare; a rare pair may be canon, but is often not. Some pairings may be more popular than others but that doesn't diverge from its deserving of recognition. Reasons for a pairing being uncommon include a lack of screentime or interaction in canon.

* * *

Send me a TW pairing and I'll write an installment for it, preferably one that isn't canon-divergent.

Ships that involve incest, drastic age differences, or abuse (i.e. Lydia/Jackson and Lydia/Peter specifically) or etc. are not permitted, please. (I don't do Deucalion/Scott, Peter/Stiles, Derek/Lydia, Parrish/Lydia, Scott/Stiles, Peter/Scott, or Derek/Stiles. either)

* * *

I'm doing an installment of both character's sides combined or individually. Below is a list of dual characteristics I can try to base off of each pairing, if desired. **Other than that, give me your best shot!** :)

The list:

1\. storm / calm **_(already done)_**  
2\. strength / weakness  
3\. order / chaos  
4\. noise / silence  
5\. shallow / deep  
6\. near / far  
7\. lost / found  
8\. past / present  
9\. emotion / logic  
10\. beginning / end  
11\. focus / blur **_(already done)_**  
12\. split / whole  
13\. vibrant / pale  
14\. dawn / dusk  
15\. passion / apathy  
16\. light / dark  
17\. sweet / sour  
18\. pressure / sensitivity  
19\. hope / brave  
20\. break / healing


	2. Non-Perishable: Scott McCall

**— NON-PERISHABLE**

 _storm / calm._

 _I._

When Scott McCall is eleven years old, he gets his mark.

He remembers because it was just after his birthday and that the tingling, rippling, splintering sensation when it appeared was the most painful thing he's ever felt in his short life, and he scratched and hollered to his mother, for his mother, until the burning ebbed into a bearable throb under the curve of his knee. He remembers the look on his mother's face too—first of horror, and then the smile that seeped through. And that his body was shaking afterwards, and through teary eyes he sees the cratered, pink scar that had just been smooth, brown skin moments ago.

It's a detailed, large three-sided prism with a triangular hole in each face, stamped on his upper calf, and it's so perplexing, so enthralling, that it was found far more interesting by his _mother_ than himself. It's baffling, and _annoying_ , really, because truly, in what world is getting a symbol etched in your skin like a brand a glorious thing and _"my God! My boy is growing up!"_ thrown around like this is a fucking right of passage? Because in what life is this sort of thing interesting, this sort of liability given to an _eleven year old_?

Regardless, the mark never really resonates with him—especially not at this young age—and not in the meaningful way, and most days he's able to forget that it's there until a group of kids in the school yard want him to pull back the legs of his shorts and show the _cool mark_.

Scott ignores that it's there. He almost doesn't want it to be, and lies about its existence, because he's eleven and in the fifth grade and the _Power Rangers_ were far more appealing than this mark, despite his mother's zealous spirits about the thing, and it's the width of three of his fingers anyway, shaped similar to an arrowhead, and it's such a _wee bitty thing_ that it could no way hold any significance and it's _just a little mark anyway_ —

He doesn't fully understand what it means.

* * *

 _II._

Her name is Allison Argent, and she smells like lavender and the faint whiff of the cinnamon and whipped cream that she gets on her Starbucks coffee from across the street every morning, and her lips pop with that cherry flavored chapstick that she keeps in her purse. That he's tasted on a few occasions. Multiple occasions. Some he would wouldn't admit weren't at school, sometimes in the confines of one's personal four bedroom walls…

Scott has no idea what to say to her at first, all auburn-hair and Bambi-eyed and worrying to her mother over the phone on her first day. But it doesn't seem to matter now when he had turned around and handed her a much needed pencil with the widest, dopiest smile ever to exist—she will tell him months later. And he wonders if the bleary, capricious haze overtaking his senses is due to his lack of a good night's sleep or the instinctive, alluring _sureness_ of the dimples in her smile.

He suspects the latter.

But she's compassionate and strong-willed and sapient, and when she's just there he can't deny the doubtless pull that's like a hook in his gut—and he grimaces at this—because he's tripping over stools _and_ his own feet, and missing the easiest passes at games, and just can't seem to do anything _right_ with his mind in a whirl and his stomach fluttering and churning into straight mush. And he hates it. He hates it when he's made a running joke by queen Lydia Martin and there's this pulsating, almost vibrating inverted tattoo on the side of his leg that just the other day almost made him eat the fucking _tile floor_ ; like when Allison is present or suggesting "motivational tactics" in his ear to finally bowl a straight strike, and she _must_ have seen him as a loser too, surely—

And he hates it, that the world seems to turn slow when she's here, when everything could easily become "just one more" and "a little bit longer" because time becomes an illusion then, and the lights of the universe are dancing around them, and he feels powerful, incredible, _invincible_ , and he loses his mind and control of his senses.

He hates it when he's like this around her, when he's irrational and then becomes unappeasably _angry_ because everyone knows him, knows his name, of who had been and the animal he fears to become now. And it doesn't matter that he's the lacrosse team captain _now_ , or that he's managed to attract the school's queen bee attention to _not_ metaphorically kill, or that he's become significantly better at math, because certainly, he's too weak to be deserving, too feeble, and far too awkward—

But her voice is melodious and her touch magnetic, and her all-around general presence is angelic, and suddenly, the world becomes alright.

Almost a full year and and two months pass into their maelstrom of a relationship when she finally shows him her mark. The moment is serene, placid, and albeit, surrounded by the inky blue sky atop her roof outside her bedroom window, with Arcade Fire playing softly in the background. And both are finally able to relax because he doesn't have to hide or lie to her anymore and Peter, the werewolf who bit him, is now dead.

She guides his hand to the side of her waist, sliding the fabric of her shirt up to where his fingers caress the engraved indent in her lush complexion.

"I got it two years ago," Allison informs, and then bites her lip. "While in the pool where…where we used to live and I—they say I almost drowned because I was flailing so much." She scoffs a bit, flashing an embarrassed grin.

And then all the talk about misguided feelings and misinformed advice, and overstated inquires of "young teenage love" that helps in an absolute no amount is finally thrown out the window because now he knows.

He _knows_.

They _both_ know.

And there's this shared sense of blissful premonition and utter, complete entirety that is devoid of any words because they just can't _fill it_ , no matter how poetic or sincere because this—her—them, it's unreal, storybook-like, and it's _perfect_. He rolls up his pants leg to show _her—really_ show her this time—the small cratered mark there. He shows its sharp detail and cut edges, its smooth curves and elegance about it—and it compliments her. And when she shows hers, it's a small sun etched in her side—a spiral encircled by an octad of tiny triangles. It's cute, she tells him; and when he smiles, she says it fits him.

* * *

 _III._

It's three years later and Scott's in the eleventh grade and sitting in the tub of his bathroom, hands stained pink and brown and _reeking_ of alcohol and floor cleaner and still he keeps scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing.

It's three years and five months later, to be exact, and he now knows what a silver-tipped arrow is; he now knows what it means. And it feels like he's been skewered on a pike, like his insides have been torn out and trampled, like there's a Stygian void that has been opened in his chest, and he _just can't take it_.

And he hates it. But it's not like how he hated Derek's cryptic messages and sketchy ways of teaching him control in the beginning, or the way he had hated Jackson, or how he and Stiles and the others were trapped in the school by a more animalistic Peter, or when his father _suddenly decides to show up_ and almost causes his best friend's father his job, or how he had almost lost his said best friend.

No, it's not like this—it's worse.

He hates this. _Absolutely._

And he wants the mark _off._ He wants it away, gone, with no visible indication of it ever having been. Not now, not ever.

Stripes of pink, red, and a dark rustic brown weave down the side of the tub like veins, and there are opened bottles of rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, nail polish acetone, and anything that had "remover" or " cleaner" in its description that are scattered across the tile floor and have all been emptied to less than half full.

He wants it away and off.

There's a bar of soap he had used to no success that slipped away nearby, and a washcloth. He had used his mother's loofah, his back scrubber brush, and then some exfoliator he found under her bathroom sink, and then containers of removers found under the one in the kitchen, and he washed it all off under the searing hot water of the bathtub faucet and he cries—not because of the burning from his skin, having literally scrubbed it pink, raw, and off, or the warm trickling of blood that steadily dribbled from his open, arrowhead-shaped mark, or the scolding he'd receive from his mother when she returns from work about how she'd never be able to get the colors out of the grout. He's used up two washcloths and worn his back-brush down and an entire bottle of his mother's beaded and scented face exfoliator, and it isn't until he's holding a trembling, honed-tipped claw to the top of his calf, panting, feeling the air fly from his lungs for the second time that night, blurry-visioned, and wishing, when he stops.

He pauses.

He gasps, and takes another deep breath. The world begins to stop spinning, and he pauses.

His hand trembles.

He gulps, the air clearing his head.

He stops.

 _"I was hoping that I wouldn't have to tell you this, but sweetheart, let me tell you something that no teenager ever believes, but I guarantee you it's the absolute truth: you can fall in love more than once. It will happen again, and it will be just as amazing and extraordinary as the first time, and maybe just as painful,"_ his mother's voice rings in his head.

Scott looks to his raised hand, and his claws are tainted a rusty color, ready to gouge the mark from his flesh, and he's sure that the scent of the cleaning solution will last for days.

Months have passed since Allison's death, and Chris Argent disappeared from the grid and is no doubtly miles away.

 _"But it'll happen again. And, I promise you, it will."_

Scott's nostrils flare and he inhales another mouthful of contaminated air.

Back when his mother originally took him aside and spoke this, he couldn't help but ask if this is what happened between her and his father.

 _"No, he wasn't,"_ she had responded. _"I didn't have a mark for him either. My, uh, my first, uh, they died long ago. But your father…he was there for me when I needed it…" She paused._

That didn't make Scott feel any better.

He feels his claws retract as he lowers his hand and blinks away the last of his tears that trickle out his eye's corners. And he's exhausted, exerted, and he exhales a lungful of chemically-permeated air and drops his head. The memories of the past three years wouldn't go away and continue to flash behind his eyes against his desperate yearnings. He draws his knees to his chest and rests his chin atop the caps.

An hour passes that he sits in the slick, porcelain, bloodstained tub like that.

He knows that Lydia has had her mark since preschool, and the twins Ethan and Aiden had proudly shown off theirs, and only recently did Derek reveal his—twin stalks of wheat that had blackened and scabbed over, a state much like Scott's mark had been when the Oni delivered that fateful blow—and he remembers that it will all be fine.

Scott tightens his arms around his legs.

He reminds himself that he will be fine.

Forty-three minutes pass when he hears the front door unlock and his mother shuffle in from downstairs. He hurries and turns on the shower to watch the water wash all the slime and red and chemicals and evidence into a tiny whirlpool and vanish down the drain.

He wishes he could scrub away memories.

His mother yells and asks what he would like for dinner that night. He answers back that pizza was fine.

* * *

 _IV._

Stiles tells that he met up with Malia at Eichen House Asylum, and Scott watches how soon after, they turn into a kind of item. And he has to admit that they're cute—well, he means that they don't look particularly _bad_ together, but—

There's something about them that just doesn't quite tick _right_ with him. He thinks that maybe it's how Malia seems like she sort of has to be around Stiles as if to reassure herself of _something_ ; or how Stiles' words are never the final say-so, at least until Scott gives an order; how she seems to stare at _Scott_ like there's a pimple on his face or food in his teeth, or how Stiles seems to force himself a little _too much_ into their kisses lately, or how not too long ago he noticed that Malia's pulse seems to grow more erratic around Stiles—and not in the good way—and there's almost a sense of fear that she emits, fear and something else that Scott can't put a finger on just yet.

Malia Tate came into their lives on a whim and hurry, and in a weird way, it's been great and beneficial, a godsend. She isn't like anyone before—and that's not only because the first time she shifted was when she was nine. She's a fish out of water but she's strong and assertive, and sassy and guilt stricken.

Scott realizes that she's very different—a good sort of different.

Sometimes, he thinks that he picks up on some type of chemosignal from her, but it's one that he can't recall of being very familiar with. And just when he is ready to ask her about it, or certain that this all must be just in his head, it evaporates.

One of the last times he's talked to her was after the lacrosse team's annual bonfire and there had been something on the tip of her tongue then, he could tell. But Malia is brash and outspoken and unapologetic and she looks like a goddess when she dances, and therefore Scott gives her space.

* * *

 _V._

Six months later Scott earns his second scar, and this one is just as startling as the first, and the sharp stinging—though less painful this time—still caught him off guard. This time it's on his left inner arm just below the crease of his elbow, and it's within the worse timing ever because he knows what it is, what it meant—or, at least, he _thinks_ he knows.

This time it is a small, intricate alder leaf, something he could fit on both of his thumbs. And this time, _he's_ so boggled by it that all he can do is stare at it, and stare, and contemplate. He could see the spikes along the edges and could count the veins—one, two, three, four, five, six—and it's bad because it's the worst thing that could have happened to him right now.

Six veins; six months it took to destroy his life.

This is the worst thing that could have happened to him because there's Stiles and Malia, and there's Lydia and his new beta Liam, and he and Kira were _just_ about to reach that milestone in their relationship—

It's the worst thing because Scott gets his second mark, and he knows it's not Kira's. And he can't quite bring himself to tell her, much less _show_ her.

He's afraid—of what she'll say, what she'll think, and just whose mark it was, and Scott wasn't even sure if Kira _had_ a mark. Much less a matching one. It wouldn't be too much of an issue, he thinks—he's heard of cases where those with corresponding marks, where soulmates have actively _ignored_ their partners, and by some way that Scott doesn't know, ignores that ungiving tug that brought them together.

He decides to wait to tell Kira.

* * *

 _[ final ]_

Because Deaton explained that, according to the ancient Celtic meanings, the alder tree stands for endurance, strength, and passion, it wasn't too difficult for him to come to his decisions to talk with the owner of his mark—and with much help from the Druid.

And Scott realizes that he truly does have the worst timing ever to speak up.

It's nearing three in the morning and he glances over at Malia. She's chewing on a thumbnail, deeply emerged in her reading, and he feels a tug at the corners of his lips at the cute wrinkle that forms between her brows then as she comes to a compelling point in _The Dread Doctors_ novel.

He and his pack were all spending the night at his house to read their own photocopied packets of the book, given and written by Valack, and to make sure no one had anymore violent hallucinations or was ran over by a car, and no one was to sleep. They've already broken the last of those rules.

Scott turns back to his photocopy of the novel and presses his knuckles to his upper lip and tries, fails to ignore the rapid beating of Malia's pulse or the expanse of her throat as she leans it to the side or the brush of her eyelashes against her slender cheekbones, and he feels his stomach churning, chest tightening—

"Are you going to speak or you going to keep staring at me the whole night?"

Her voice slices through his thoughts like a knife to butter, and its curt and grating, and—he stammers over his words. Eventually, he chokes out a coarse, thick "no." He notices that her eyes are just as sharp as her words and he diverts his sight with a sense that is almost like shame. _Almost._

"You've been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes, Scott. There something you gotta say?" she asks, less harsh this time. "Say it."

He gapes for a moment. Had it really been fifteen minutes?

"No—no I wasn't! I just—"

"Uh huh." He could tell that she wasn't convinced. "You _sure?_ There's _nothing_ you want to talk about?"

The alarm in the digital clock was set to go off in two more hours. It's numbers flicker into the next minute.

And then Scott's given the opportunity. He has the option of speaking this out, to maybe come to an agreement to this all or at least an understanding because there's no way, absolutely _no way_ —

His mouth drops open and for a moment, for one second, be believes that the mark will take over and that this must all be some kind of cosmic joke—because it has to be—it _must_ be.

Malia watches his thumb rub on the inside of his elbow.

Scott snaps his jaw closed.

"Uh, no. I'm good. I-I'm fine."

Her eyes are round and doe-like and it could be described as a warm, exquisite nectar that is coursing through his veins, and the funny thing about it is that now, suddenly, he's _ok_ with it. He silently wishes there was more.

The clock changes from 3:25 a.m. to 3:27.

Kira had gone to Scott's room to sleep; Stiles snores lightly on the couch nearby.

Malia sighs, tossing her photocopy of the novel down on the arm of the sofa. "Alright then. If you don't, I will," she mumbles. She pushes to a sitting position, swinging her feet from under her to the carpet. "Have you gotten your mark? I mean, another one; I know about Allison's—Stiles told me—but, have you gotten _another one_ , perhaps?"

Scott squints, and notices that she's holding her breath. She's anxious.

"Stiles?" His voice escapes him and his brows furrow. "I, uh… Why is that…?"

"Have you?" she insists, but he stays silent and grinds his molars. "It's because—" Malia continues swiftly, agitated, "because I got mine. It was a while back, actually…"

She sees a smile twitch at the corners of his lips. "Really? When?" He sounds a little too excited and he clears his throat.

Malia hesitates. "It appeared that day you changed me back human. It was when you roared and…this is stupid—this—this is— _oh my god_ what was I thinking. This is stupid. I was just wondering, okay?" She cuts off sharply, turning her back around and bringing her knees up on the cushion of the single sofa chair.

Well.

Scott wonders what to say, and whether _to_ say anything.

The clock now reads 3:35 a.m.

Malia is staring at the packet again but she isn't even reading, he sees. And he realizes that he's terribly indecisive with socializing. Eventually, he admits, "yeah. I did." The living room is silent; he sees she's paying more attention now, but not fully wanting to look at him. "Yours—it's Stiles', right?"

And then Malia looks so worried, so distraught that Scott becomes concerned. "It's Stiles, right?" he wants to press, but only manages to choke out a sound that could barely pass as speech.

"Not exactly," she admits sheepishly, and it's such a drastic change of character—it's not like her. "Actually…he's become so distant and kinda annoying, actually, and I don't think…" She doesn't finish. Instead, she places a hand on her wrist and begins to roll back the long sleeve of her shirt when she stops. "Wait, what's yours?"

Scott's lips part and when he asks what she meant, she responses, "your mark, _duh._ You said you had another one. So show it."

"What! Why?"

"Because you mentioned it first, so you go first. So, show. Now."

Scott sighs. His thumb is rolling over his mark again. "It's just a little leaf…"

Malia's eyes widen. "A leaf… What kind of leaf?"

"Uh, Deaton said it's an alder tree leaf. Why—"

"That's it," she finalizes. "Let me see." And then she's charging across the room to his seat and Scott barely has enough time to get to his feet or regain his breath that flew from his lungs when his pulse jumped in his throat, when Malia has her hands on his arm—and the sensation is warm and it _tingles—and_ she's rolling his sleeve up and up—

Scott watches her freeze, pull away like she's been electrocuted, swallows, and her eyes are saucers. "Oh god," comes out in a whisper that would be inaudible to normal ears.

Her hands are shaking and "what" and "what's wrong" spill from his mouth immediately.

Malia takes a step back. "That's my mark," she whispers.

"What? Are you sure—"

"I think I'm pretty more than just _sure,"_ she snaps sarcastically. "I'd know my mark when I see it."

Scott frowns. "Well than, show me yours now."

"No."

"What do you mean—"

"I mean _no."_ She folds her arms.

Scott takes a minute to look her over and he knows that she's just being less stubborn than she was fretful. "You said that you had Stiles, right? So, what's the big deal?"

Her lips tighten into a straight line. "I said _not exactly_ to whether I had Stiles."

Scott pauses. "Wait…so you _don't_ have Stiles?"

"I said not—"

"Malia, you don't have Stiles do you?" he speaks more sharply, with more emphasis.

She draws a deep breath through her nose, nostrils flaring, and he can tell that she's so, utterly fearful. She's gripping her sleeve tightly, and it begins to move up…

It's a simple mark, but it equally makes him feel an identical wave of joy and dread and exhilaration and dejection. A thin circle enclosed by a thicker, larger twin was etched in the skin of her inner wrist just shy of her Ulnar artery.

He blinks, unsure at first but he's certain now—this must be a game, has to be.

"Stiles doesn't know," she remarks.

Scott wipes his mouth nervously. "That's a little more than _not a not exactly like Stiles_ , Malia."

"Yeah, I know." She looks up and her worry doesn't reflect quite the same in his eyes. "So what do we do? I don't think I should tell him…"

"Yeah," Scott breathes, "you definitely want to wait to tell Stiles."

* * *

 ** _A/N: Was this good; did you like it? I plan to touch more on this pairing throughout the other installments and Malia's part._**


	3. Overexposed: Malia Tate

**— OVEREXPOSED**

 _storm. / calm_

 _I._

Malia's favorite color is green—like katydids and clovers and the broccoli she never eats and prickly, wrinkly caterpillars and tourmalines and the nasty veggie drinks her mom used to make. It's the color she scribbled across her bedroom wall at age four with a forgotten permanent marker, but that was now painted over, and where she glides her hand across when she feels lonely. It's the freshness of the dew in the morning that glistens on blades of grass, of peridot gems and moss and the color of flower stems before they die, and sage, sickness, and Christmas trees.

When she was six, her favorite color became purple, and then when she was seven, it was red.

Red is vibrance. It's stoplight bright and popsicle cool. It's the shade of radishes and sliced watermelon and sunburns and ladybugs. It's endurance, her mother's lipstick and her sister's dress shoes and the color of the family van. It's rubies and carnations and warmth and frilly dresses bought off the clearance rack and Coca Cola in the summer heat. Red was the last thing her human eyes saw, and—

Red is violence. It clung to her hands like paste, a stain, a label and reminder that lingered for days, years. It's what scared her nearly half to death and then what kept her alive for years later through the forest wildlife. It's terror, shame, longing, and regret. It's what made her keep coming back to her family's grave, leaving flowers and gifts like a lingering phantom, so in plain sight but never seen. It's morose and envy; it's what brought two boys from Beacon Hills in search for her with the police on their tail.

Red is what saved her—it's fire-bright and thumbtack sharp and haunting, ghostly.

Red is cotton candy soft, statuesque firm, and sun-kissed and it's gentle. It's a broken record spinning, a list of promises never able to be fulfilled, and coffee dark hair. Red keeps a lucky dollar coin in his pocket, hesitates often, and she thinks he eats pizza too much. Red thinks more with his heart; it's peppermint fresh and radiant like a light she'll never be.

Red is the small, sleek little carve on the inside of her wrist—two circles, a thinner one dwarfed by a thicker duplicate—a sort of inverted tattoo and indication that tingles and throbs. And she can feel it stretching and pulling and its guidance growing, strengthening.

Then Malia changes her favorite color to blue. But it's the color of sapphires and raindrops and her sister's baby blanket and butterflies and the color of her eyes now. Blue is a reminder, and she doesn't want that, can't have that.

Malia concludes that green isn't such a a bad choice after all.

* * *

 _II._

It's been eight years since she has heard her mother's voice, and Malia remembers it like lights through a dense morning fog—it always brought little comfort. She finds herself glancing a little too long at the front door or hoping that the kitchen blender would magically start working on its own. When her dad would catch her like this, he would show a weak smile and Malia remembers that their named mugs sat untouched in the cabinets. Then her father would rise from his chair and ruffle her hair like he used to, and call her "Champ." Sometimes they'd go to the park and just sit, sometimes the grocery store or that little restaurant like years before, sometimes they'd gossip.

Sometimes, Malia looks at the mark on her wrist and wishes that her mom had told her more about this, because she's seen three couples get together at school because they claimed theirs were corresponding.

She and her father bond over the memories of their late family.

But still, she's terrified and second-guessing and guilt stricken—and she can't reveal to him _why_ —and it begins tearing at her inside.

At times, she feels so alone—it's most times, actually.

It's almost a year since she was _"saved"_ and she's grasping at straws and shifting in public and failing exams and quite honestly, she wants to flip the desk table if that teacher calls on her to answer a math problem _one more time_. She's rash and impulsive and it helps _a little_ with the training from Scott and the attention given from Stiles. But she doesn't belong, and she knows that, can practically _feel_ the glares and judgement coming from others in the school halls, and she thinks that this must be similar to Lydia's description of "having voices in your head." But Malia is told that it's anxiety—whatever the heck that is—and her doctor tries to prescribe her medication—

She ends up flushing it down the toilet instead.

But the voices are still there and though she doesn't speak it, she feels the trickling sureness of fear seeping through her veins like a slow illness. And she carries it, silently, like one.

But she can't brake. She has too many responsibilities now, she has a pack, and she has Stiles.

But when this boy looks at her with those wide brown eyes beaming, she almost wants to tell; she almost doesn't want to hide because now she has something to take care of besides herself and has something to get in return, and the way his lips turn up in that crooked smile of his and the map she could make of the freckles on his back—Malia is still trying to get comfortable with all these newfound emotions.

But she feels the mark on her wrist rippling and vibrating and _pulling,_ and telling—

Malia has made a lot of bad decisions, but Stiles isn't one of them. Sure he's meticulous, persistent, rebellious, and kind, yes—and she finds that she ultimately _likes_ that—and he's _just_ _right_ because, well, she doesn't need some _thing_ on her wrist to tell her that, she doesn't. She's sure.

She doesn't.

But then she finds herself staring at the little symbol and wondering, contemplating, refusing. And at times she wishes that she had been told more about all this. But she was nine then, and her main concern had been _not_ getting any Valentine's Day cards from cooty-infested boys in her class.

She doesn't need some tattoo to tell her who to like.

But still, she can't help but wonder...

It was Lydia who the first to tell Malia what the mark means, who told her the century-old, distasteful, mystical tale:

 _"My grandmother called it a destiny mark. Everyone gets them, but at different points in your life. And on different spots of your skin. Sometimes it's someplace cute," she held out her ring finger on her left hand, showing her mark. "Or...it could end up being a tramp stamp, unfortunately... Anyways, they say that your mark is important because_ _it's the mark of your…significant other—"_

 _"You mean mate?"_ Malia had interrupted, trying to grasp this outrageous concept.

 _"You could say that. Others would say soul mate. Or fate."_

But Malia already had someone, someone who was intelligent and a chatterer and who was her first time. _He_ was supposed to be her mate, her other half—that's what it always indicated in books and fairytales; the hero who came and saved the princess was the one who was always the best choice, who could comfort her and show her the world, and they always ended up together. Happily ever after.

And Malia grew angry. This whole _fate_ ideal, this pointing of direction—how could something like this exist? What cruel game by the gods thought this would be funny, amusing? She didn't like it one bit because she was content _here_ and actually _likes_ her relationship with Stiles, albeit she hadn't intended for it to turn into one, and didn't need some _tiny tattoo_ governing her every thoughts and actions.

 _"That's not how it works," Lydia calms her down._

This isn't how it was supposed to happen.

But life wasn't a child's story, and was more like a Grimm's tale, and she would become inexplicably _angry_ at this because it's _not_ right; this _isn't_ supposed to happen, and—

Her mark tingles as weeks go by and she finishes up gaining her powers under control with Scott's guidance and it's getting on her _last nerves_ when she can barely concentrate on her English quiz because it's twisting, vibrating, and pulling her away—

Malia chooses to ignore it.

* * *

 _III._

It's over a year since Malia had been _"changed"_ and quite honestly, Kira was starting to grow on her. Lydia, on the other hand...

This Kira girl, she was quick, quirky, a _badass_ fighter, and a _terrible_ dancer. And Malia couldn't resist but to help her improve, and—she likes it when they dance together; she's having fun; they _both_ are.

She likes Kira, Malia admits. Lydia, on the other hand...

Lydia was sassy, sultry, and sarcastic, and a genius. And Malia knows that she just _won't_ be able to catch up with them. And she feels very, terribly self-conscious about it. She watches the way Scott shows her control, making it seem so effortless, and Stiles' marking on his board like a sleuth, and she stares back at her textbook that has more tab marks than an internet browser and she wants to chuck it across the room. Because she's a dimwit, a dullard, a decelerate, and a loosened lightbulb, and she's so _goddamn behind_ with everything, she feels—she _knows_ —that there's no way—

She sees the way that she and Stiles have grown but she still feels hesitant; their kisses are lovely, yes, but deep down, it's like she knows—that she can feel that _something's_ there, and it's not first date jitters.

She decides to go to Scott for help.

Malia makes a lot of bad decisions.

* * *

 _IV._

There's a small, abstract design on Stiles' shoulder blade she sees one night in his bed, and a part of her knows that there's something unimaginably _wrong_ about it, because she doesn't feel a connection, doesn't feel the pull that Lydia described and part of her wants to get up and leave, to climb out the window if she had to and bolt through the night, not caring about the rain, and to just run and run as fast as she could to wherever she was being pulled to, where she knew she had to be—but she doesn't. Because she knows Stiles and she believes she loves him and he the same, and she kisses him anyway like he's the last great thing on Earth, and by now she has a pretty good, pretty _solid_ idea whose mark she has and it's so _goddamn crazy_ that it's not—that it just _can't_ be—

And she chooses to ignore it, and pretends that the mark is not there.

She's in denial, and she knows that.

Malia sees the way that Kira and Liam have made progress over their control, and Lydia's words replay in her head like a tape back at the annual lacrosse bonfire, because she had been alone and vulnerable and when she's finally dazed and stumbling, her words slur. And then it's red all over again—she can feel herself swaying, her restraint waning, her mark rippling, lips curling and giggles bubbling forth from her mouth as words that would be out of character almost tumble out—Malia refrains herself from speaking words that even she almost didn't want to believe. Almost. Because all she sees red again and he's standing in front of her, concerned for her again, like usual, and she feels a lurch in her stomach that _may be_ a mix of the vodka and _maybe_ it's not. She doesn't register the loose soil under her feet until too late and there's the words ready to tumble from her mouth, revealing her thoughts and opening a can of worms—words that she's been quite sure of for some time now but never really ready to say.

The world grows hazy and happy and numb.

And she notices red again, and he's confused, and she laughs. Because she's _pretty sure_ she's drunk and she's _pretty sure_ that she's not certain of how she'll make it back over to the table for another drink or the fact that she is starting to barely focus on the silhouettes of dancers in front of her...

Malia has made a number of bad decisions.

She decides that she should have never went to Scott's for help.

* * *

 _V._

The lacrosse bonfire had been some time ago, and now, Malia diverts her eyes down, rubbing her mark with her opposite hand. She quietly waits for Kira and Scott to pull away from a kiss, and she can't help but notice how Kira is smiling and the the smile on his face that's just for her, and—Stiles' arm encircles Malia's waist and then, it's all alright again.

Her mark is buzzing like an electric hair trimmer.

She goes on too long with her bad decisions.

Stiles pull Malia in for a chaste kiss. She doesn't see his eyes going over her head—that had been happening for a while now. She doesn't notice the dimming shine of Kira's smile either.

They were about to catch The Benefactor and stop a dead pool hit-list for other supernatural creatures and it was no time to worry about her own feelings.

Kira grins hastily, shyly. She and Scott pull away.

Malia doesn't know how everything will turn out, but there's a small bit of hope, a sort of electric current that cuts through the room and then, somehow, things feel just a little bit better.

Malia's starting to believe now.

* * *

 _VI._

A year later Scott dies.

And there's blood pooling under him, staining the school carpet, permeating the air, burning into their retinas...

Malia tries to be good, she tries to make the right decisions—and then Theo—

There's a small gash near Scott's temple. Blood pools from a hole clawed out from his stomach. Dimmed, red eyes staring, unfocused above.

Scott is dead—and so is all the red, _her_ red, that was sharp and haunting and her gleaming beacon—

Scott is murdered.

And Theo did it, with help by manipulating Liam. Theo is the one who did it, who dug his claws into Scott's gut and twisted, punctured, literally _sucked_ the life out of the other teen.

Malia could feel it happen, and—

She screams.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

She searches for Theo next, and then she beats him until he's black and oozing thick red. She beats him, branding him with her fists, her knuckles connecting with bone and fat and muscle and then bone again, hitting him over and over and over and over and she throws him on a table and punches that demented smile of his again and again until she could no longer see the whites of his teeth or the straight line of his nose.

It doesn't matter that Scott had been brought back _now_ —Theo killed him, and in the act, killed her too.

She watches her fist make Theo's head bounce backwards, earning a sickening, satisfying crack. And Malia's tongue is in her throat and a storm raging her rationing and as her eyes are blazing a brilliant, terrifying cerulean, she voices a guttural, menacing proclaim: _"He's mine."_

* * *

 _VII._

Stiles finds out. He always does, eventually.

 _"We...kinda broke up, I guess."_

 _"You can tell me what's happening with you," Scott tries. "I mean, besides Stiles. You can talk to me—"_

 _"Don't ask me to talk." And Malia knows the look that he's wearing—that he probably has his jaw slacked the slightest, and for the umpteenth time he's debating whether to speak his mind—eyes wide, blinking, and his tongue probably darting out—and she has to pay attention ahead. And he's staring at her, and she knows that if she were to turn around and look—this is wrong, and bad timing, and everything is, and, and, and—_

 _"Does he know?"_

 _Her mark vibrates, though with much less intensity than in the beginning. She fidgets with the leather bracelet she uses to hide it, and she hears that skip in his pulse, can practically feel the onslaught of questions coming._

 _She answers:_

Of course he figured it out.

* * *

 _[ final ]_

Malia meets her mother—and not her _mother_ , unfortunately—her mother, like, biological, the one where she got her DNA and werecoyote genes. Her mother was not happy to see her, and neither was she when finding out that all the woman wanted was to kill her only daughter.

Malia's mother was called The Desert Wolf, born Corrine. And still, a two weeks after the ordeal and the mess with The Dread Doctors was all over and Mason was restored and The Beast was vanquished, Malia still sees them, just out of sight, creeping in her dreams, claws scraping the walls, rows of razor fangs, of blue eyes just like hers in the face of a monster.

Malia still sees them, and sometimes she wakes startled and hurries to turn on the lamp at her bedside, or drenched in a cold sweat, or screaming. She's caught herself waking up screaming multiple times. Sometimes, she'd fumble with her phone after clicking on the lamplight, and she'd scroll through video, pictures, texts. She'll feel a twitch pushing up the ends of her lips; the coal-black cloud lifts in her stomach, and she wished she had called someone.

She sees that Kira posted pictures of Stiles' cheek sticking to a textbook page, a fine line of drool pooling on the page; Kira's in the picture and Malia sees the caption. It makes her stomach turn, but—

 _"We...kinda broke up."_

It's true; Malia had to move on—Stiles obviously did. And she knew, somewhere deep down inside, that it was never going to work, to last, no matter how much she clung or wished or how hard they worked.

This had all been just last night.

That's why she hadn't felt too bad when asking Scott to come over.

But he's the alpha, so it was only part of the job, it was in the occupation description, the assigned responsibility, and this was nothing else.

"You sure you're alright?" he asks, and Malia doesn't answer right away. He fidgets with his helmet under his arm, and she's staring at the dark house in silence.

Everyone had gone home after a night out in celebration of the end of exams and vanquishing the last of their villains. Earlier, Stiles and Kira had hurried home; Lydia had offered to drive Malia home to which Scott insisted instead. Lydia had raised her eyebrows expectantly, giving a silent push forward when the werewolf wasn't looking. Malia had frowned instead.

"Malia—?"

She snaps back to the present. Scott looks her over.

"Yeah—I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine. Your heart's beating like craz—"

"I said _I'm fine_ , Scott," she snaps, and once again his jaw snaps shut and his eyes steel up and there's the slightest movement in his face as he grinds his teeth together, stopping himself and deciding whether to object, to think of his words first.

They stand in silence for the few following minutes until she stomps up the porch stairs of her house. The keys shake in her hands the very slightest, and the house _does_ look very uninviting and cold... Scott's still grinding the flats of his teeth when Malia whirls around, holding the screen door, and brashly advises, "you can go home now. Thanks for the ride."

And he's staring at her. It's not like back when they were reading _The Dread Doctors_ novel or when they hugged for _a beat too long_ or the time he caught her dancing alone—

He's staring at her with such intensity that, for a quick beat of a moment, she wonders if he's going to shout.

"What?" she questions.

Silence. His jaw is offset just the slightest and there's a tear at the collar of his jacket that she hadn't noticed before, or the scent of his cologne, she thinks it is—

He takes a breath. "Is your dad home?"

"No," she furrows her brows; inside her pulse speeds from both the empty house and her impulse of acting hard-edged. "He's been out of town for the last several days. Why?"

Scott hesitates. Then, to her surprise, practically shoulders past her and into the house. "I don't hear or smell anyone in here—"

"So you can just go home now," she interjects, brashly. The shadows inside the house swallow them almost entirely, save for moonlight.

"Malia—"

" _What_."

He sighs. "Malia..." It's said much softer now, delicately, pleading almost. "Stop it. Alright? I know you're terrified—"

"I'm not—!"

"—I can smell it on you," he finishes as if she hadn't interrupted again. He steps closer; she's surprised when he reaches to hold her hands in his; even more surprised that she doesn't pull away. "Talk to me, Lia." She shuffles on her feet. "You don't have to act like you're miraculously _ok_ after all that's happened. None of us are, ok?" She looks down and the air of fear around her starts to despite. "I—I'm only offering!—you can come over to my place until your dad gets back—or-or Lydia's! I can call Lydia, see if—"

She has her arms wrapped around herself now and mumbles a calm, low "no." She breaths, trying to fool herself more than him: "I'm fine."

"Talk to me. _Please_."

"Scott. Please don't make me talk." Her eyes are wide and round and there's a hint of a plea that punctuates her words, and for a moment, Scott is struck silent.

Both no longer feel the distracting tremor of their marks. Ever since their ungraceful breakups, each's marks have been pulsating noticeably less.

Malia drops her hands and takes a step back.

And he doesn't show signs of moving either—or leaving—so she sighs again, this time in defeat. "Do you want something to drink then? Water? There's this tea my dad and I drink because all the other kinds are too sweet or nasty. ...There's soda, I think."

"No thanks," he smirks. Malia's looking off to the side. "Where can I crash?"

She leads him upstairs after Scott checks every lock and window despite her repeating that it was fine and that she could hold her own. He only responds with an "I know" and continued anyway.

And she feels nervous slightly, like a pit swirls around in her stomach, and as she asks him if he would stay in her room that night, there's almost a daze that drops behind her vision. But her room isn't as messy as it could have been or worse—Stiles', that she's seen—and so she doesn't feel _too bad_ about asking, but _still_ —he's her _alpha_ , her friend's ex- _boyfriend_ , her ex's _best friend_ , lacrosse captain, her upperclassman almost, and _far_ more experienced than she—

He was also Scott McCall.

He was also her soul mate.

"Your room's nice," he sounds slightly surprised.

"It's whatever; it's just a room." She tosses her jacket on a chair and hurries rummages in her dresser.

Scott examines the floor. There's a collection of stuffed animals pushed to one corner under her desk.

"Um," he starts. "What do you want me to do, exactly?"

"Keep watch."

"Of what?!"

"Everything. I'm tired, so—" she has a handful of clothes in her hands. "There's a bathroom's over there and to your right," she points over her shoulder. "Might want to change or...or whatever." She follows him out and turns to change in a closer bathroom.

When Scott returns, Malia is dressed in pajamas, going through her cellphone. Scott asks her is she really wants to go through Instagram, and she retorts that he wasn't her mother. He frowns, of course, and she has to hold in her smirk.

"Come here," she motions, tossing her phone to her nightstand.

Scott hesitates at first, leaning over her, genuinely curious. The wind knocks from him when she pulls him down to the bed.

"Get comfortable. I like to cuddle." She pulls his back in her arms and Scott is so _baffled_ and caught off guard that he just lays there, Malia nuzzling her cheek into his back, and he surprisingly isn't as annoyed with it as he thought. He allows himself to relax.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

It's roughly two hours later when she screams herself awake. She's thrashing around, hands flying and fangs flashing, screaming about _brake-ins_ and _them killing everyone_ , and her fists hit flesh instead of imagined leather, she fears that she was captured once again. But her fists are restrained and she hears the calming voice and familiar scent and she floats back to the present. She allows Scott to hold her still, and doesn't realize that there's tears until he comments. And of course she wipes them away, hastily, embarrassed.

"That was a bad dream, huh?"

She swallows, and doesn't answer. Malia nods. "I thought...'s was Theo and The Dread—" She doesn't finish.

But she knows that they aren't there, that they probably don't even exist anymore, even through Scott's reassurance. And she grows so _frustrated_ because it's been two fucking months since all of this and she's _still_ —

"I-I'm fine, S-Scott. I'm—"

Her sniffling cuts off at the feeling of something sliding across her mark, and a ripple is sent through her, up her spine and curling her toes.

Scott doesn't seem to notice. "Do you...do you wanna talk about it—now, Lia, maybe?"

Malia doesn't answer right away, loving the calming sensation of the pad of his thumb rubbing her engravement. Eventually, she sighs, defeated, because she's been holding in these thoughts, these monsters and green-eyed demons for so long and they just kept getting worse and worse...

"I'm just worried, I guess."

His chuckle resonates through her in broken waves. "I think we all are."

"But—" She tries, fails, and fails again at speaking. The room grows silent. Malia flops to her side, back facing the other, and Scott hesitates, because her wrist is still in his hand, and he _knows_ that she's just going to keep putting it off and ignoring.

She shivers as he rubs her mark again. "I hate you," Malia slurs from sleep.

She stares at the darkness and she _knows_ that he isn't going to let it go, let her go back to sleep until she speaks.

She's hesitant to open her mouth.

"We used to have a tree in our backyard," she speaks slow. "It was an alder tree, and...and me and my sister, we used to try and climb it..."

* * *

 ** _A/N: I hope this one was okay. I plan to have Stiles' up next. Feel free to let me know what_** ** _you think (meaning: PLEASE tell me!)_**


	4. Radio Silence: Stiles Stilinski

**— RADIO SILENCE**

 _blur. / focus_

 _I._

Stiles Stilinski has a type.

Short girls, five foot three inches tall, plum-purple acrylics fashioned with rhinestones and abstract accents, and lurid, enticing, _kissable_ lips. Girls who have curly hair and wear Hermes, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, _Prada_ ; who carry handbags in the crook of their elbow and have fur boots bought exclusively. Girls who aren't tall but who won't hesitate to cut you down, to grind her heels into your spine if you backtalk; girls who date _winners_ and _captains_ , not _almosts_ and _second bests_. Stiles dates girls who come from rich, polished marble, and private preparatory schools with wait-lists queued longer than most restaurants in New York. He dates girls who leave red lipstick stains on cups, who prefer _dark Colombian roast_ —organic, whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top because they're _not some type of hooligan_ —in favor of tea, or like more consumers, Powerade. Girls who style their hair in French braids, expensive gold and silver dangling from their ears that costs more than your entire wardrobe, and practically _kill_ themselves in stilettos every day; girls who likes skirts, rompers, mini dresses that add to their figure and make her backside look so damn—

Stiles dates girls that have that _I know what you did last week_ kind of snarky smirk, and a model's walk. He dates girls who wear cashmere and lacy lingerie, who leave your bed smelling of lavender and release and that bitter, tangy aftertaste of snuffed lecherous fire. Those girls are modish, polished, eloquent, connected, sophisticated and _spoiled_ ; products of the lavish and of hundred dollar investments by parents with too much to spend—parents who you'll hear have a new squeeze in a week after the divorce files.

These girls are intelligent, intellectual, and _proper_.

Stiles Stilinski has a type.

His type is Lydia Martin.

* * *

 _II._

Stiles' mother has a mark, he remembers, a triad of triangles under the right side of her collarbone that fit perfectly in the spaces inside the black octagon on the left side of her husband's chest.

 _At least_ twice a month when he was younger, Stiles would ask her to retell of how his parents met. His mother would smile, ruffle his umber-brown hair, and _if_ she hasn't grown tired of hearing her own voice enough yet, tells the tale that sounds too much like another Blockbuster romance.

His parents' marks were crisp and distinct, congruent like a fresh tattoo, and obviously corresponding—and the importance of it all to him was when he finally receives his own mark, it was planned to happen somewhere on his prematurely drawn life-map of his future between getting a college degree and his own house where no bullies were allowed.

Back in grade school when Stiles met Scott, back when each didn't know any better and still believed in the Tooth Fairy, was Stiles' first encounter of this drastic concept. It begun when Scott came in to school quieter than usual, with a bandage on the outer side of his calf. It registered more to Stiles than his young friend and owner of the mark, no matter how many times Stiles had tried to explain it. Because this was a _big deal_ , a transforming next step in life, a rite of passage, and Scott only _shrugs_ and mutters, " _so_?"

And it frustrated Stiles.

It registered to him more because he _knew_ how significant of a situation this was—to Scott this was just an agonizing experience like falling off a bike—but Stiles _knew_ how influential this all was, and because it meant that princes were real and happy endings were indeed true.

Stiles has heard of _the mark_ for all his years but this was the first time coming across someone else who had _just_ gotten theirs. And it was intriguing, _exciting_ , expecting—

And, oh, how wrong he was.

Scott had gotten his mark before Stiles—and Stiles hadn't been mad, at least not back _then_.

* * *

 _III._

Claudia Stilinski dies of dementia.

Stiles is ten years old, sitting at the hospital at his mother's bedside when it happens and he doesn't ever quite get over it.

His father's mark turns black and scabs over and it burns, like a brand, like salt on a wound. He lies that it isn't very painful. Her funeral is scheduled to happen in two weeks.

He's made sheriff of Beacon Hills, California and the police station is filled with condolences and commendations.

Stiles was happy for his father, certainly, and they make it along, but—

Stiles was brittle, tarnished, traumatized.

He's ten years old and stars are garbage and wishing on dandelion puffs is stupid. He's ten and he begins to disbelieve in happy endings.

* * *

 _IV._

It's six years later and Stiles is in the ninth grade, and he can't decide which is more terrifying: whether the girl he _likes_ has had her mark for years and it's probably— _likely_ —not his or that _"basically everyone has a mark here"_ except for him.

He watches his best friend with a girl that couldn't have happened by anything but _luck_ , of the cosmos, and can't believe that _Scott_ had his before _him_ —and Stiles is bitter about it, yes, because that should be _him_ with the love of his life too, that should be _him_ having a ball out late at night on dates, and it should be with Lydia Martin; that should be him being kept up late hours of the night to a voice or text on the cellphone; because his best friend is a _werewolf_ for Christ's sake and Stiles _shouldn't_ be this unfortunate. And no matter how much his father reassures him that _it's ok_ and tries to convince his son that the mark isn't a do-or-die event, that Stiles shouldn't rush things, he can't help but doubt, to wonder, and worry and contemplate.

Stiles is bitter about it.

Lydia's mark is a pretty little indented scar on her ring finger.

No, Stiles is _angry_ about it. And the mark on Lydia's finger isn't his, though he keeps insisting, trying, and pushing. Because Stiles Stilinski isn't a quitter; he is smooth and ambitious and suave and handsome. And he can figure this all out—eventually—probably—right?

He sees Scott and Allison and a scathing emotion swirls around in him because he looks at his barren flesh and he grows scared. He looks at his bare flesh and grows worried.

Sometime that year he succeeds in taking Lydia to prom. She smiles like a dazzling sun; he pushes down the anxious, almost queasy twisting in his stomach as he asks her to dance. She thumps her palm against his chest wearing a look that speaks humorously, "you'll do." It's a win situation, but when her hand is on his shoulder, he sees the nude-colored, tiny bitten apple tattooed on the side of her finger, and suddenly the room goes slow and her head is more annoying than it is comforting and his chest is gaping…

There is no pull, no overpowering need to reach out and connect. There's nothing not like he had been told. No signal, no overwhelming urge. Nothing.

Stiles no longer believes in happy endings. He no longer believes because he sees himself in the mirror and grows worried, knowing that Lydia's mark isn't his.

Because he's sixteen years old and his skin is bare.

Because he's sixteen years old and he still hasn't gotten his soulmate mark.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Then, three years pass and finals roll around and with it comes a maelstrom.

And there's a girl named Kira—

She's moved here and they meet and she remembers Stiles' name awfully well. He meets her after Allison breaks up with Scott because, quote—she wants to "experience what it's like dating others who aren't your... _you know_ "—unquote. And Scott is _a mess_ —as expected—and Stiles was there to pick up the pieces because he knows that it's only a matter of time until both are _crawling_ back to each other. Because he knows how this will turn out, that those who are soulmates can never be away from each other, not truly, and will always gravitate towards each other like empyrean-designed magnets.

Except...that doesn't happen.

It's three years later and his mind is spinning. Classes are starting. He has to start saving up for a new radiator for Roscoe—Stiles' Jeep...and he still has to pay his dad back for that one time... Scott and Allison break up, Jackson moves to England, and Lydia tries to turn her sights elsewhere. As time rolls, students are crammed into lopsided desks of icy grey faux marble tops and the over-pungent scent of pencil shavings and Sharpie marker come with it as well as the overwhelming, suffocating feeling of procrastination and stress and spite as students are packed into classrooms and there's another wave of anxiety and new prescription of Adderall needing to be filled.

Stiles is surprised that Kira remembers him, especially with the way she's looking at Scott and all.

Kira has thick, ebony hair that sways in her eyes when she's nervous and tilts her head, and dimples that makes a tug pull somewhere in Stiles' thorax just a little bit _more_ every time. And then he'd swallow and say something stupid or too serious. She'd smile shyly and—

But she gravitates toward Scott.

The bell rings for class period and the accumulated murmurs quiet down and Stiles remembers that there's a textbook and two pages of homework sitting forgotten on his bed back home, and a curse is right on the edge of is tongue when he slides into his seat in front of Scott in history class.

There's a man, a new teacher—Mr. Yukimura, he says—at the front of the room that gives a smile that makes the buttered blueberry toasted bagel Stiles had that morning turn into drowsiness.

At Beacon Hills High, students stampede through tile hallways that the scent of Pinesol and angst and dust still linger. Stiles watches as Lydia becomes enthralled with Ethan, an Alpha, and he is powerless about it. He watches as couples entwine and part like trends all around him. And he can't help but feel a pit of hopelessness welling inside him. Sometimes Scott has to tap him when he's glaring into his locker, when he can't find a picture or word indented in his skin, and bring him back down.

There's a new girl in class named Kira. Scott remembers her name oddly well too: Kira. Kira Yukimura, a thunder kitsune it turns out. Her father teaches history. Her mother claims that she used to be in a military camp. Kira is cute, and insecure, and just as awkward as Stiles.

Stiles catches that she has _a mark_ on the back of her bicep once, but Kira pulls her sleeve down before he could see. She holds his stares with a look of foreboding before turning, eyes large, then dark ponytail swaying.

Stiles' type are pretty girls with expensive tastes and who could kill a man with her heels.

Kira Yukimura is ungainly, quirky; sometimes Stiles has seen her rushing down the hallways with a toaster waffle in her mouth, hair still un-brushed.

Stiles mutters under his breath, scowling to the floor. " _Fuck_."

* * *

 _V._

At age seventeen, Stiles is possessed and he meets Malia Tate. And she's a raging ball of fury, brimstone, and bad manners—and Stiles can't forgive that after their re-meeting and practically _saving her life_ by turning her back human, she practically, no, _literally_ body slams him onto the fucking pavement like a goddamn _rag doll_. And Stiles has to admit that he's both intrigued and utterly, unintentionally _terrified_. Because this girl is a hurricane, a creature of fictional origin and temptress.

And when they kiss, she melts in his arms.

Malia's pretty, yes. She speaks her mind and Stiles doesn't have to beat around the bush with her; when she didn't like someone or thing, she said so. And there's something gratingly, _frustratingly_ intriguing about it, about _her_. He gravitates toward it, her confidence and unruly-ness, finds comfort and a sort of anchor from it in her brash tone.

When Stiles is seventeen, demons swim around in his head and threaten to kill the girl werecoyote. Demons dance around his head and take over his mind. They swirl around in his consciousness and taunt him, laughing, flashing wide, razor-tip teeth as he hallucinates, forgets who he is, where he is, his friends. They extract from him and create faces that are just like his until he's looking at a malevolent reflection straight out of a House of Mirrors.

Stiles is checked in the hospital where he finds out that he has dementia, and the demon tells him that he's going to die. He can't bring himself to look at Scott, and he knows that his father is behind the glass before the CAT scan watching, weeping. Stiles has the same dementia his mother died from, the only kind that can hit those his age. He doesn't have long to live.

And Stiles cries. He screams, begs for forgiveness, mercy, benevolence.

The demon has a twisted face that looks just like his own.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

It's called a nogitsune, a sort of trickster fox demon. A spirit. _A kitsune._

And there's the new girl, Kira, and Scott and Isaac and Deaton and Allison that are trying to help Stiles, but the voices are all in _Stiles'_ head, _his mind_ is where all the monsters lie, and soon he has to make the ultimate decision. He knows—it's inevitable.

Noshiko Yukimura calls it the divine move, and it's when one of two players during a game of Go captures the opponent's stones by completely surrounding them.

He plays the game with the demon, The Nogitsune, and by sheer chance Stiles wins. While Scott and Lydia were in his demented head, Stiles swipes the stones off the game-board. He wins the game but loses the battle. He wakes up confused, disoriented, and a searing throb that laces up his backbone and burns into the bones of his neck, his ribs and shoulder blades. He wakes up and Stiles is completely numb.

But the evil is gone.

Stiles feels a mark on the back of his shoulder in the shower a few weeks later. He concludes that it must be a healed claw wound.

When he sees himself in the mirror, he sees the monster with his face, not his own. For weeks he still has night terrors and wakes up screaming and kicking, terrified. But as time goes by, he eases back into a feigned notion of normal. Because Stiles' best friend is a werewolf, Scott's girlfriend is a monster hunter, the girl Stiles had liked is a banshee; Stiles himself had been possessed, tricked that he was going to die, and Malia is—

 _Malia is—_

Malia is a werecoyote, sure, but—

Malia is...

Malia is wonderful. Stiles' father likes her, she hasn't tried to kill Scott or himself, and there's something unmistakably _shameless_ about her. Because she's stubborn and headstrong and brutally honest, and Stiles can tell that there's something about the way she's been more distracted so often. Stiles doesn't notice it immediately, but when he does, the way she puts off their meetings, blows off their dates, how she claims that she loves him as they spoon in bed but her nose scrunches up when they kiss and she's more mentally preoccupied.

She's detached.

She never shows him the scar on the inside of her wrist, _her_ mark. When they had spent the night together in the basement of Eichen House, she had made sure to not expose it either, and to just focused on her legs around his waist, the taste of him on her tongue.

But Stiles has never had his mark and doesn't know what the pull, _the bond_ , fills like and so he believes that—hopes that—this is true love.

But it's not, and nothing ever works out that way.

Malia is the one that tells him about the scar on the back of his shoulder one night when alone in his bed. She describes it as chicken scratch. As not even a picture, and Stiles only mentions it next time in the locker room before a lacrosse game. He pulls his shirt up from the back so Scott could see and—

He thinks he shouldn't have done that.

Liam is waltzing over, finger pointing, and it's just an _oh, yeah_ sort of exclaim. Scott's jaw snaps closed and he swallows. To the both of them, it looks like a lightning bolt.

"A lightning bolt? What am I, like, freaking Harry Potter now?!" Stiles is sarcastic and in no way enthusiastic.

"You're a wizard, Stiles." Liam bounces on the heels of his feet. "Well...it's more like a squiggle if you ask me..."

Stiles cranes his neck, trying and failing to get a view of his mark. "I'm a—weren't you like, not even born what that came out? What do you even know—"

Scott cuts him off.

Liam glares.

Scott prods the skin on his friend's shoulder, around the indented mark. Stiles shivers; it tickles.

Stiles realizes now why there always was a robust, unshakable tingle in his shoulder when—why he always felt an undeniable pull because—why he felt noticeably _different_ after The Nogitsune incident, though Scott says that is all in his head.

Stiles knows now why he and Malia had grown apart; why Kira has been around more frequently and Stiles has been more interested on conversing with her.

He blinks and wonders if this was real. A part of him wants to believe that it was a misconception.

Stiles yanks his shirt down.

At practice, he sees Scott look over and flash a smile at the bleachers. Kira grins, shy, nervous, and unsure; Malia is the one who returns it full-force.

* * *

 _VI._

Malia shuffles on her feet. She's nervous, antsy, and kind of annoyed, really.

"Stiles, what...what I'm trying to say is that—is that I talked with Kira back when we had to go back to Eichen House, and she agrees that—agrees that..." She breathes out hot air, rubs her sweating palms together. This was neither the time nor place but yet she was nervous and _needs_ to get this off her chest that's been aging and marinating and becoming a larger problem with each passing week. But Stiles already knows.

"That you want to break up?" Stiles asks.

Malia stands appalled. Her first instinct is to lie. "What? No! I—it's—"

Stiles looks away from her. "Look, I know we've been growing distant and it just _isn't working anymore_ , Lia, I know." She's surprised by how calmly he's taking all this. "Besides, I know about your mark."

This time she freezes. "...You...you do...?"

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah. Saw it when we were locked in the hospital room that one time. When you thought Melissa did it on purpose."

She's silent. She doesn't know what to say.

"It's fine. It was going to happen either way—us breaking up."

Malia brows furrow. "And how do you know that?"

He sighs, deep, and drawling. "Because I got mine too. Finally."

She asks where it was. He tells her that it's that symbol carved into his shoulder blade.

"That thing? That looked like chicken scratch!"

"Yes, _that thing_!"

But it's perfect. It's small and significant and he now knows why his shoulder has been feeling like an electronic back massager under certain circumstances, around certain _someone_.

"Yeah, well?" She pauses.

Malia has never shown Stiles her mark, and when she does, he isn't surprised; he'd already suspected she has one. He already suspects that it wasn't his.

"Whose is it?" she asks about his. Her eyes are wide and doe-like, and Stiles remembers when he once admired them so lovingly. He partially wishes he still does.

He hesitates. "It's...I think it's..." He sucks in his lips as Malia offers to tell hers. But Stiles waves her off, stating that she needn't do so—

"It's Scott," she blurts. She watches Stiles freeze...and then he just _falls_ , and crumbles. Malia quickly has her hands up in innocence. "Look, I won't do anything if you don't want me to! I mean, I know about how close you guys are. I don't _have_ to do anything...!"

"Malia...I think this is much bigger than you think."

Her nose scrunches up and she frowns, asks _why_.

"Because...because..." He's rubbing his hands together. Stiles thinks he knows whose mark his belongs to, he has a pretty good guess because he thinks he saw a glimpse of his a while ago.

Malia can literally _smell_ the anxiety radiating off of him. "It's Kira, isn't it?"

* * *

 _VII._

Scott isn't necessarily _told_.

Because when Stiles comes up to him and tells about his mark, Stiles excepts to be devalued against, for Scott's nose to scrunch and flare and eyes to turn red—but he doesn't. And Stiles has to stand there for an entire two whole minutes staring before he speaks.

" _What_?"

Actually, Scott isn't _told_ , but it's reiterated again. He lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose when he voices this.

"So—so, you _knew_? And you didn't—why didn't you ever tell me?!"

"Ok then." Scott shrugs. "Hey, Stiles?" he begins in a mock voice. "I think you and your girlfriend should break up because _I_ think she should be with _me_ instead of _you_ because, you know, _her mark is mine_!" He sharply motions to the small leaf near the inside crook of his elbow.

Stiles stays silent. He shuffles from one foot to the other. He looks down at the ground, tongue darting out nervously to wet his lips, looks off to the side before meeting Scott's gaze.

"You know, I could say the same thing…"

* * *

 _[ final ]_

Years later, summer comes and goes. The leaves turn into a parade of colors before coming to their demise at the end of a leaf-blower or happy child. Insects manifest and die, the atmosphere cooling. Beacon Hills goes into celebration at the departure of a class year of students and the entry of another. Hats are thrown in the nostalgic reminiscence that in no way mimic High School Musical like they were all fooled, and it ended in an over heated crowded parking lot in the beginning of June.

One turns into two. Two years become four.

Summer changes to Fall, and Fall is near Winter which is the is the time for drinking and being merry.

Stiles has never liked the cold.

It's about six years later and Stiles is staring at the grey sky after falling flat on his back in the freezing cold. He shivers once, and winces in pain.

"I'm _not_ exaggerating this time! I really can't move!" Stiles grimaces. "I really think I might have hurt something!"

After talking smack, he slipped and landed on his back outside the Yukimura's Californian home. It takes him a minute to come down from the shock. Seven minutes more until he's lugged into the home and lying comfortably on his stomach on the living room sofa.

"We'll get you to the hospital in a few minutes!" Mr. Yukimura rushes, but Stiles waves him to calm and claims that he'll be a-okay.

Stiles insists that he's fine. He's been through worse, he tells. But Mr. Yukimura knows; they all know.

"Besides, isn't the hospital closed today?" Stiles asks, accepting a red mug from Kira as she walks over into the living room. He can already smell the fragrance of alcohol from it.

Scott responds before she could. "Hospitals don't close, Stiles. You _know_ that."

Stiles grimaces as he leans upward slightly. He raises the mug to his lips. "I'm fine."

"He says as he's dying." Malia peeks over the rim of her mug as she drinks. It too is filled with a festive alcoholic mix. She's sitting across the room, sharing a three-seat couch with Scott. Then when she catches Stiles' glare, she leans into Scott's side and smiles.

Kira sashays to the nearest single couch chair and sits. "She's right though. Remember what happened in our trip to Washington?" She earns a dark look as well from over the rim of Stiles' mug.

Scott's head snaps around. "What happened in Washington?!" He is on his second round of Guinness.

"Don't tell them, Kir—"

She speaks quickly. "Remember that time we said that we had to take some extra time because of supernatural stuff? It was a lie. Stiles threw out his back."

"Oh my god, Kira!"

And there's a round of tipsy laughter. Around the corner in the kitchen, Noshiko gives Ken a knowing look. He puts up his hands in confusion and innocence.

"Stiles," Scott sputters, coughs. " _Stiles_! You...getting old already, dude? What're you gonna do when you have kids?"

Stiles takes another long swallow. "Well, not all of us have awesome healing powers. Some of us break easily."

"You're _twenty-five_ ," Malia speaks up beside Scott. There's a golden ring around her third finger. A small half carat diamond.

" _So_? ...And who said anything about kids?"

Scott's brows raise. He realizes the aroma of alcohol is becoming noticeable in the air. "Oh? So all those years of you talking about your future kids is all wrong? You're still not going to name them Luke and Leia?"

This time Kira's neck snaps around to Stiles' direction. "Really?"

"Look, I was _joking_ , I was young..." He tries to defend.

" _You are not_ naming our kids after _Star Wars_."

"I'm _not_ naming them after Star Wars!" Stiles raises a hand in innocence, the other gripping the mug.

"Then where'd you get the names Luke and Leia?"

"I got them from...they're from..." He can't find an excuse. He mumbles pitifully, "yeah they're from Star Wars..."

Kira crosses her knees and sips her drink with a confident, _caught_ look. Her thick, dark hair is tied up in a loose bun and she's in stretchy pants, short furry boots and a nice purple top. And as he watches her turn then to Scott, the conversation diverging to the engagement ring on Malia's hand, and Scott's chest puff out at Kira's praise about it, Stiles wonders how he had ever been afraid of confronting them. It was idiotic thought, Stiles admits. A purely cowardly, idiotic suspicion.

Kira leans closer to the other couple, rests her chin on propped hands on the armrest. Malia jokes about one of Scott's stories about his employees. Kira laughs.

Stiles feels a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He watches them, watches the strands of hair fall from Kira's messy bun, of her dorky, broken laugh, her chipping plain white nail polish and scuff at the toe of her boots. She isn't wearing any lipstick this time, and the bracelet around her wrist is starting to rust.

He faintly hears Scott asking about Lydia. Neither women know and Malia pulls out a cell phone with one hand and begins messaging her.

There's a red glow appearing on Kira's face now, Scott remarks, and suggests that she's had enough to drink. Stiles watches that adorable pout appear on her face again. The one that makes her bottom lip poke out like it does when she swings her hips for him, and he'd bite his lip in desire. Kira's eyes go wide and round, and she claims that she's feeling just fine. But still her friend isn't convinced. She fills her cheeks with alcohol before placing the half-empty mug on the coffee table. Stiles sees that her ears are beginning to redden as well.

Ken and Noshiko Yukimura come in then. Stiles rises to see them, cries out in pain. Noshiko comments on him still in pain and commenting that he really should get medical help. This time, Stiles doesn't object.

Noshiko jangles car keys. Malia takes away the mug as Kira tries to sneak another sip. Scott helps get Stiles in the backseat of the car. On the ride to the hospital, Kira smooths her hands through Stiles short hair. She watches his face scrunch up in pain as they first go over a speed bump and then jerk to a stop at a traffic light. Her fingers dance around the spot-like moles along his jaw. Her face still has a slight reddish glow.

"Were you serious about the kids names?" She asks low. The car radio is loud and doesn't think anyone hears.

Scott is nodding his head to the beat in the front passenger seat.

"No." Stiles perces his lips, looks over and smiles at her. "You name them whatever you want."

"Ok," Kira smiles. She turns to look out the window. "I want three."

* * *

 ** _A/N: How do you like this chapter? Let me know please, like iif these pairings are too bizarre or if my writing is too jumpy. Please._**


	5. Chronic: Kira Yukimura

**— CHRONIC**

 _focus. / blur_

 _I._

Kira gets her mark at six.

It had been partially cloudy that day, and she had just gotten her first "boyfriend," as she called him, was allowed to watch her favorite Disney movie and have her favorite dessert after dinner. And crawling into bed, her father had read to her before bed this time—her favorite book about a mischievous mouse wanting a cookie—and the whole day had been just _great!  
_

She awakes screaming that night, startling her parents out of bed in the early morning to come running and see their little girl with tears streaming down her face and writhing in pain.

" _It burns! It burns!"_

They see that she's holding her slightly chubby left bicep, just above her elbow. Minutes later, a throbbing little reddened symbol could be seen stamped into her milky skin.

Her father turns on the bedside lamp as her mother cradles Kira in her lap, the girl still weeping. The mark is a three sectioned box underneath an accent mark, they see, something Kira could fit on all three of her little fingers. She thinks it looks like a three-drawer dresser.

The next day Kira wants to skip school. Her father sticks a Band-Aid to the back of her arm and presses a kiss to the covered scar as he carries her Hello Kitty book bag on one shoulder. She isn't allowed to miss school, wipes her tears, and puts on a brave face.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

There's a celebration thrown four weeks later arranged by her mother. Kira's relatives flood into their little home baring flowers, perfume, and gifts, and taking up all the seating places and lawn room. Kira is dressed in a hanbok, pinned because she hasn't yet grown into it fully. A related elderly pinches her cheeks. She posses for family pictures. She's offered treats and sweets, anything she desires.

This spontaneous celebration is for her.

More precisely, it's for her scar.

Her _mark_.

 _"This is very important,"_ an aunt tells her and Kira's mother, Noshiko, looks on, fondly. _"I'm so blessed to be able to see her take this milestone. This is a very wonderful occasion."_

 _"It doesn't feel wonderful,"_ Kira spoke and her mother pinches her unmarked arm in punishment.

A celebration is thrown for Kira as it nears her seventh birthday—a sort of coming-of-age, if you will, that's lumped together along with all of this. The dinner table is cluttered with rice cakes, noodle soup, sujunggwa, and the same skin lotion and bath crystals as her mother that Kira admired. And Kira is washed in cold water, per her mother's request who also gave her _omamor _i__ amulets, and charms written with _jusa_ to ward off misfortune and malevolent spirits are stuck all along the walls and one on Kira's forehead, and she's told to hold a set of beads in her hands. Kira is spoiled from sun up to sun down.

She doesn't need the Band-Aid anymore, and sometimes she rubs her tiny fingers over her mark, feeling the indent of the symbol in her skin, the redness and swelling having gone down by now. It's nude-colored and intricately, delicately carved into her ivory skin that she can only get a good glimpse of through a mirror.

Kira is given a celebration for this milestone she's just reached in life.

She couldn't care less about it.

* * *

 _II._

When Kira is twelve, she's asked out on her first date by a boy who's favorite color is blue and who collects Jordan and Nike sneakers. His name had been David-something. He broke her heart by next year once getting his own mark that wasn't assigned to her.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Noshiko has never liked any of Kira's boyfriends.

There was the first, David, that hadn't lasted more than a year anyway, but that isn't the point. Following, there had been the redhead Sam, a baseball player named Zach, and a Carlos, and Dante the aspiring singer. They were all either "not right." Or, "there's something fishy about him." Or, their dirty, deceptive little puberty-induced secret was found out before Kira knew.

She hasn't had many boyfriends—most had just been _not exactly official_ , anyway, but that wasn't important. _The mark_ is supposed to help you find your _one_ ; it's supposed to act as a sort of detector in a way. And Kira has seen it happen, the alleged magical strings of fate align firsthand. She's seen couples abruptly form in school hallways and in grocery store check-out lines. _The mark_ is supposed to buzz when you're near that special someone, whoever they may be. The invisible strings are said to tighten and jerk in unforgiving fascination toward the direction of your other.

And it sounds nice, in theory: Kira meets boys, dates a few, but there's always something that doesn't quite fit _right_ about them, and the emotions of infatuation dissolves in smoke.

At home, Kira twists her arm around to see her mark in the mirror, her reflection still hazy from condensation from a shower. She wonders why she has been given _this_ one. This specific shape, and if of any importance, in this specific location. She wonders what it means.

* * *

 _III._

At sixteen, Kira and her family move to California when her father is given a new teaching job.

There had been the typical defiance the teen exempted, the panic and sorrow of knowing that she is going to lose all her friends and leave life as she knows it behind. She had just made the Honor Roll and was invited to a party in the next two weeks and now all the possible affects of these occasions will be lost down the gutter.

Kira groans and lets her forehead fall into her comforters. Her mother reassures that it will be for the best—of course Kira doesn't believe her. She hates change, and this is the worst kind. She had been just fine back at her old school where she knew people and was comfortable and she was adjusted. At this new California school, she's going to be the oddball out, the kooky new girl, and she's sure her father was going to embarrass her in some way or another.

Which he does.

"Morning everyone. My name is Mr. Yukimura, and I'll be taking over for your previous history teacher. My family and I moved here three weeks ago. I'm sure by now you all know my daughter, Kira. Or, you might not since she's never actually mentioned anyone from school...or brought home a friend for that matter."

And there is a large _thunk_ in the back of the classroom, Kira's forehead connecting loudly with her desk.

"Either way— _there_ she is."

* * *

 _IV._

Beacon Hills High doesn't prove to be _too_ bad. The kids don't gawk at her, and there isn't much intimidating or peer pressure, and there isn't much holding her back from talking and speaking up except for her insecurities and second guessing, her lacking of self-confidence and social anxiety. Though, positively, there's some _cute_ guys here which she doesn't mind at all. Nor does she mind watching them practice out on the football or lacrosse field. In fact, they're in her father's history class—

There is one is in her father's history class.

Besides being the lone new girl and struggling to make friends, one of Kira's conflicting hindrances is that the mark on the back of her upper left bicep hasn't stopped trembling, demanding, and making her want to _go_ , pulling her to hurry to some unknown location, to some ending point, to find some _person_. And it provides a _problem_ when she can't fully concentrate on her work, when she's daydreaming to waltz up to a random stranger like a lovelorn young schoolgirl.

No, not problem— _dilemma_. This is a terrible, crucial misfortune.

At first she thinks she knows what it meant, who her mark _could_ belong to—it had kept her from good night's rest since—and so when she finally voices it over dinner one night, she had only been hoping for validation, approval. She knows what _the mark_ means and what it is for anyway, her mother describing her own numerous ones that have been tattooed over, which are all now blackened and scabbed beneath.

Kira gives a vague disclosure that her mark is pointing to someone her father teaches. She doesn't tell anything else. Partially because she doesn't know _how_.

It happened on her first day of history class.

There is a cute guy in Kira's class who catches her attention. Her neck rubber-banding for second glances whenever he passes, her chest clenching with anxiety, suspense. He's a boy who is tall and lean and lively. He's overzealous, running on undying AA batteries, and highlighter marks staining his fingers. He has wristwatch alarms for the morning and he never seems to have a pen when needs it. He's sandpapered edges and coffee brown hair and skin stars. He was the first to talk to her in this class—albeit, because he misplaced his marker case—but there's no way it could be anything but arbitrary; it's no way it could be him. Because they exchanged names and bashful teenage smiles and it's far too picturesque. Even though, Kira's eyes light up. There is a comforting, blissful premonition of perpetuity and utter, complete entirety that courses through her, and it's then that she finally comprehends the words her mother explained about the fulfillment of finding your match. Even though it's too coincidental and identical to a romantic novel for her liking that it couldn't, mustn't be true.

And she thinks as much. Because when his friend enters, Skin-stars' affection is turned _off_ like a flip-switch—no hesitation and no second glances. It isn't him. It can't be. It isn't realistic and had only been wishful. Kira _knows_ it isn't real. Because she sees the way Skin-stars' attention rubber bands to his friend, and then she sees the way he looks at that girl in his English class, the one with red hair and cherry lips.

She sees, and scratches at her mark, all of a sudden irksome and infuriated.

She's certain it wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

It wasn't him.

It can't.

Kira rubs a hand over her mark, an absentminded motion as she watches Skin-stars and his friend pass by in the halls, watches from her locker sometimes in the morning and from the back of her father's class. It isn't _on purpose_ that she just so happens to be in the same place as the two guys so much—this school isn't small and has many students so this could possibly be confused as unintended stalking, she thinks. She dreads. But that isn't the point! And neither is it helping her.

Kira goes to the library to research for a project...and hears whispering the next aisle over. Removing one of the encyclopedias, she spies Stiles Stilinski hissing urgently and wildly gesturing—he always gestures so animatedly, and she smiles because it's quite _cute_ , actually—to a voice that sounds like Scott's, the other's friend conjoined at the hip.

Stiles abruptly freezes, then his head snaps around. And Kira doesn't wait to see if he's spotted her, quickly reshelving the book and bucking out of the library. She's the new girl here and couldn't afford getting a terrible reputation already, especially one of being a Peeping Tom.

Her eyes squeeze shut. Her ears burn pink.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

It isn't until after a particularly unstable dispute with her father during lunch does Kira finally muster enough courage to talk to the boy in her History class. The one which makes her mark buzz and beg and pull for the entire class period.

But the way she does it is...so... _Intrusive_.

"Hi! ...Hi, I couldn't help overhearing what you guys are talking about...and I think I—think I might actually know what you are talking about."

They're outside at a picnic table when Kira utters those words. All eyes turn to her and she immediately regrets it. Stiles gives her the most puzzled look, and she ignores her gut wrenching, the nervous heart-skip that _must_ be anxiety again.

Kira continues on anyway. "...It's a Tibetan word for it: _bardo_. It literally means in-between states. The state between life and death."

Lydia is the one to speak a response first, turning with the most patronizing forced-smile. "And what do they call _you_?"

"Kira," Scott answers for her.

All seem shocked that he knows.

Kira forces a smile. Her hands wonders to the mark barely covered by her shirt's sleeve. It's throbbing, inwardly pulsing. And it's funny—it's a coincidentally type of funny, because _of course_ , she thinks; _of course_ it is Scott, because her mark grows abuzz and _pulls_ and _guides_ whenever he's near. It's why he is the only one who seems to pay her any attention.

And the concept is perfect. It's storybook-like and lemonade cool and it's quite unreal, quite assuring, quite _impossible_ how easy this all has been for her—to move to a different town at the _perfect_ age of seventeen, and _poof!_ meets the love of her life.

It's pale incarnadine, impeccable, and it's implausible.

So, of course, she gravitates towards Scott McCall.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Regardless, Kira tends to stick to herself. She isn't the quickest to make friends and is even worse at determining her own resolutions. She eats in her father's classroom during lunch. She skips to go to the library. She doesn't participate in extracurricular activities or clubs or sports. Her stomach tangles and it _drops_ when she's in crowds of people, or at the center point of attention. When she arrives home, she finishes her homework, and sits at her computer. Sometimes she would run her fingers over her mark and think of nothing at all. Sometimes she'll think of everything in the world.

Her marks pulls and commands and _screams_.

When she's properly introduced, Scott is statuesque and inviting and his smile assuring. He's kind and attentive and chilverous and it's perfect. Too perfect.

She meets Scott McCall and thinks that maybe a fairytale stories aren't so bad.

* * *

 _V._

It starts with a secret.

The thing Kira has never been inept for is sealed lips. So when feelings became obvious between her and Scott, and despite he and Allison being "on a break," she so easily spilled her feelings to Lydia within a few pushed buttons because it's like a forbidden love—a white knight with his maiden lost at sea, the maiden taken by another man, and Kira is the siren who has distracted the knight from his objective. And Kira knows that she should feel guilty—and she does, in fact, she explains to Lydia in word-vomit—but Lydia wasn't helping. Instead, she advised Kira to be true and vocal, that she would come to fully regret it if she does not. It didn't ease the sickening guilt in her when Scott insists that he and Allison are _"_ _on break anyway"_ so she shouldn't think about it, and to find your, quoted, _other half_ isn't as simple as the bestsellers and sappy, cliche movies depict. It's filled with confusion and heartbreak and adversity.

And thus, feelings seeming reciprocated, Scott and Kira keep their mutual emotions hidden. Prohibited. Submerged. Secret.

But Kira doesn't do anything to further them, not wanting to be the knife forced into the raw wound of a breakup.

And she's too old to wear rose-colored lenses, she knows, but it's flawless and dreamlike and it's _perfect_. Because when Scott is near, there isn't a tug or an overbearing attraction or an ungiving magnetic connection as what she's been told since preschool. He's calm, collecting, and caring, and _cute_ , yes, but—there's a few problems with this whole situation.

One: that Scott already has a girlfriend. Well, _ex_ if being accurate—Allison Argent.

Two: that Scott _already has_ a soulmate—and it's Allison Argent. This is explained one night at a rave party in Derek's loft. Allison had been dancing with Isaac because they were supposed to be together; dancing with shirts off and a clear sheen of sweat beginning to form on their skin— _supposed to be_ because Scott isn't focused. He and Allison play tag with hidden glances and meaningful stares, and he inches increasingly closer. Kira isn't too disheartened because who is she to come between two who are meant to be?

Her pit-seed of guilt swells.

She asks about it when Scott opts for a selfie. He has an arm around her shoulders and the lights reflecting in neon blue, green, white, and red, and her stomach does contorts and twists. And it isn't love, she knows, she thinks, but it's something like it. He coxes her to "smile!," the flash turned on. Which brings on the rest of that contentious list:

Three: that Scott confirms that the "aura" seen in a selfie of hers resembles the outline of a fox. And Kira doesn't know what it means at first until her mother pulls her aside to explain that she is over _one hundred years old_ , that there are beings that are less fictional and more tangible, and that Kira is likely as immortal as her mother. Kira is told that she's a _kitsune_ , that she has a fox living _inside_ her, and she's dazed, dumbstruck, and terrified, honestly. Because she's "the new girl" at school and the boy she likes is a goddamn _werewolf_ whose mark on her skin isn't even _his_ ; there's a girl, Lydia, who is a little too in-tuned with the local murders; and and apparently Scott, Allison, and Stiles regularly hallucinate; and the _real_ owner of Kira's mark is—

The real owner of Kira's mark is—

Kira's mark is a small, nude-colored writing of "oneself" in Kanji on the back of her bicep.

The real owner of Kira's mark...

He doesn't have hers, she knows—no, she's _positive_. It's in the way of his opinions, his hand gestures, his gaze passing over her, and the priority Scott has made about her instead. It's in the sinking, almost nauseating seethe inside her when he's near. Of the formidable encouraging by the little indented symbol in her skin.

It's a skipping record player. A scratched CD replaying the same verse, replaying that's him, _it's him, it's him, it's him_ , and Kira's wearing sound-cancelling headphones triple-taped to her head.

However, she doesn't allow herself to think about it for two reasons: there are aspirating psychotics wearing silver masks hopping out from the shadows, leaving mysterious materializing tattoos behind people's ears, and she gets a vile, gut wrenching feeling whenever Stiles reappears in her peripheral vision to where she'll have to close her eyes and breath in, urge herself to not scream or shout and tackle him to the ground, and then to breath out. Increasingly, no matter how she doesn't want it to be, the local murders are seemingly connotating back towards Stiles. All the signs and occurrences point coincidentally back to him.

All of the signs and coincidences—

Kira knows her mark isn't Scott's, but she doesn't mind. He's congenial and he's charming and appreciative; he's lofty and ice block cool, and statuesque firm, and sun-kissed and he's gentle. Because he's safe and what she needs and an excellent diversion. Because she knows who the owner of her mark is, and every time she's near him, she feels her knees weaken, and an undeniable attraction and affinity, and the world slows while it simultaneously collapses and it's marvelous.

Because, fourth: she knows who's the owner of her mark and he's deranged, intangible. Because she knows the owner of her mark and because of this, they can never be together.

And throughout all of this time, Kira doesn't tell.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

It starts with a secret.

Kira has always hated secrets.

They never last long.

* * *

 _VI._

By the time Kira is sixteen, she's learned several things, creating a new list.

She's a thunder kitsune, Kira is told rather than discovering on her own. Her mother is a celestial kitsune. Her father, a history teacher and ordinary human. She's also told about the nogitsune, a dark kitsune that possesses and controls and destroys. One that takes and takes and takes until there is nothing left. It absorbs everything of its host, and once finished, leaves them all but a withered corpse.

She's told that Stiles is the victim this century, history mimicking itself.

She and Scott watch him go from a shining star to an exploding sun, detonating shambolically, violently, volatile.

Stiles looses his mind, panics. He's locked in a mental institute, strapped to a chair, and poisoned. Every time a needle is forced into his neck—meaning for the obsessive fox demon dominating his mind—Kira's chest tightens and her heart races and she grows fearful, unappeasably angry, and a little more sick in the stomach.

It's like a bad dream: her accidentally, unintentionally kick-starting a demon inside an innocent classmate with causing a power outage, discovering her own abilities, then having to experience all of his excruciating pain secondhand, only to have her mark burn and buzz more violently then ever.

It's a horrifying ordeal. A nightmare. A bad dream they all wish they could wake up from.

It's disconcerting. It's disheartening. It's unpredictable. It's—

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Stiles Stilinski is scheduled to die in a month. Two, maybe three more if the treatments are successful. He's to suffer from a type of dementia, Scott explains to the group at his dinner table. Kira sinks lower in the chair. Lydia comments that she's been looking a bit blue recently, and suggests eating more leafy greens.

Kira cries that night.

For the first time in her life, she feels utter, bone-chilling fear and anguish, the deep rooting kind that grips and paralyzes and you begin hoping that that there is a God. For the first time, her mark stings iron hot, as if needles are being injected all along its outline. In the darkness of her room, it begins to darken and callus over like a healing burn wound.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

When Scott and Lydia successfully bring Stiles back and separate him from the Nogitsune, Kira wants to skip with joy.

It's short-lived, however, by the death of Allison.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Kira doesn't interact with either Stiles or Scott for three weeks.

There's a funeral. It's open casket. The color theme is sage green with white iris flowers.

She's invited to attend. She shows up for moral support.

Scott and Mr. Argent arrive in sunglasses. Lydia comes barefaced of any makeup, eyes red and puffy. They don't leave the sides of their loved ones. Isaac and Stiles bow their heads respectively, constantly wiping their eyes. Malia hasn't come; no one mentions it. Kira pays her respects, places a white iris on the sleek black casket before it's lowered into the ground.

Mr. Argent leaves before they do.

Scott raises his head to the sky. The sunglasses do not hide the wet tracks coursing down his cheeks.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

When they return to school, they all keep their distance out of grief.

Malia has started at Beacon Hills High and she begins to gravitate toward Kira. But then she finds out that Malia starts dating Stiles, and so Kira distances herself.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

When wounds have healed and she meets back up with them, she and Scott begin a relationship.

Sixth months into it, they come to a mutual breakup.

It's one night on a date. He had put his arm around her shoulders. Kira guesses that she shouldn't have worn that thin shirt, because then he wouldn't have felt the faint indent in her skin.

Its isn't brought up again until in the back of Stiles' Jeep.

Stiles gone, Scott asks why it's been until now that her mark has come into question. And since so, asks an affirmation that it must not be his.

She responds with a questioning about when his new mark appeared, the small leaf inside the crook of his arm.

Scott goes quiet.

* * *

 _VII._

It starts as a secret.

Stolen glances in the walkway. Tongue-tied and starry-eyed within vicinity.

He wears a twitching, subtle smile for her. She's learned to look the other way.

He double texts, triple texts, and looks like a kicked puppy when she turns down his invitation to join for the viewing of a new movie. She refuses to be anyone's second or third choice. She states that she as something of importance to attend to that evening instead. When asked, she doesn't tell for what.

When he asks Kira about her mark, she brushes him off with short answers that run in circles. He mentions that he has one too. She speaks with a smile, "that's nice...good or you."

It starts with wild gestures and thinly veiled hints. Hushed confessions whispered under lornful breaths. It's instantly cleared schedules and sudden inability to complete one's homework. It's becoming a teacher's pet to her father, and being the first to wish her happy birthday, worming his way in and always doubling back, popping up, arriving _uninvited_. It's giving his umbrella up during a downpour but Kira revealing that she has her own.

She covers her mark with her sleeves, and at times, forgets that it's there. She ignores that it's there, the palpitate of her inverted tattoo that some call _destiny_ but she just thinks of a hindrance, a heartbreak

Kira sees students in the hallways at school—arms hooked around elbows and snaking around hips. Some are wanting to issue a ban on PDA. She sees Liam arguing with a girl, Hayden, at the lockers; the boy continuously scratching at an irritation on his upper stomach. She's seen the other new member, Mason, and the undeniable heart eyes he gives at a lacrosse game. During such games, Kira hears Malia cheer from the bleachers, and she no longer has the sickening, gut wrenching heartache knowing _who_ specifically Malia is cheering for. It doesn't bother her anymore. She doesn't let it bother her.

However—

What _does_ is the slight, provoking pulsing of her mark when the ball is thrown in the air and teammates shout at her to make a move, shoot a goal, run in the _opposite_ direction she instinctively wants to. What bothers her is that she has a soulmate— _hopes_ that she does—and has grown so tired of the despairing twisting feeling of lovelorn that she wouldn't allow herself to notice.

She doesn't notice.

Kira wonders, a copper coil tightening around her because her soulmate—

He speaks too fast, double speaks, and trips gracelessly over his own feet. He'll run up to her in the hallway then have to create a random excuse as to why. He makes many excuses. Most pulled out of thin air and after brittle attempts at what Kira _guesses_ is flirting. His shameless smiles that grow guilty, and him always _having something to tell her_ , nothing coming out, and then awkwardly changing the subject.

And then he starts to hug her, and she's _really_ weirded out.

A month and a half passes. She watches as Malia and Scott gravitate and mesh and even fucking _synchronize_ together.

Three months later, Stiles shows Kira his matching mark.

* * *

 _VIII._

When Kira turns seventeen, she learns that foxes come in twos.

They're never too far apart and always find each other.

They share drinks like couples in sappy, three star rated movies, and texting until three in the morning. They leave kisses on palms, indented marks vibrant and there's a molten salutary warmth gathering in stomachs. Kisses left down her neck and arching back. Of pink lip stains on folded note paper, left on his cheek before an exam and for good luck. Exchange sweaters. Hand holding. Shameless _remind me_ notes written in glitter gel pens on skin. Swapping novels. Of trading hats and scarves when it's winter. Of movie nights in the back of his Jeep and dosing asleep until the next morning. Of locker spilling out flowers when asked to prom.

Stiles has snuck through Kira's bedroom window a few times. Several times. More times than he would likely admit. But it's worth it, he thinks, when he's grabbed by the collar by Mr. Ken Yukimura, making him promise that he won't tell his wife if Stiles doesn't return this way. Shaking in the knees, his only option is to agree.

Stiles waits two weeks before doing it again.

Foxes compliment each other, a balancing blend of optimism and ebbing cynicism. They entwine their tails together, lace their finger in public, even create _pet names_ , and are undeniably _gross_ that add to it all—

However.

Sometimes, one fox has to go away for a time, leaving the other alone.

When Kira leaves per her deal with The Skinwalkers, a small part of her is left behind. A cavity of yearning rips open her gut. Her mark's trembling increases with each parting step she takes. She says that she'll be back, but to not wait for her.

Stiles marks that departure date every year on his calendar.

Before the group of friends knows it, three years have already gone by.

To Stiles, it feels like an eternity.

He waits anyway.

* * *

 _[ final ]_

It's over ten years later as Scott paces out in the hospital waiting room. His enhanced hearing allowing him to hear the shouts and groans coming from inside the maternity ward.

There is an older man sitting beside the chair Scott once occupied. He lets out a light chuckle.

"First kid?" Lines frame the edges of his grin and crowfeet around his eyes.

Scott stops. He fidgets. Wipes his hands on his dark jeans. Cracks his knuckles. The small jewel on his fourth finger twinkles under the hospital florescent lights. "Uh—no. Not mine. Not this time," and he gives a dry, curt chuckle. realizes his words, and backtracks. His words spill out frantically and undignified. "No, I—I mean—she's not my—my _wife_ , I just—"

The man nods, smiling wider. "Well congratulations anyway. A new life is always a blessing."

Scott relaxes. Asks, "what are you here for?"

Another shout reaches the waiting area. This time it wasn't Scott's party.

"First grandchild," the man answers.

Scott's eyes widen and gives a wide gesture with his hand. "Wow! Congratulations!"

"Have any kids yourself?"

Scott shakes his head. "No. Work, and all, you know. My fiancé—she doesn't like children. In fact, she's afraid of them..."

The older man nods, understanding.

Scott bounces a foot. Fidgets more. Crosses his arms.

In the chair beside Scott's now-empty one, a young boy sits with his head propped up by an arm, lightly snoring.

Ken Yukimura and Noah Stilinski are returning from the hospital's cafeteria. Noshiko waits beside the closes hospital room door in case she's needed for assistance. There are deep set wrinkles between her brows.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Kira's eyes flicker a faint orange, her head falling back to the pillow, and she emits another cry. The monitor's beeping peak as her pulse rises and drops dramatically. Malia is standing on her right and clutching Kira's hand. The werecoyote is still wearing a mixture of disgust and incredulity when Kira grips tighter.

" _Where's Lydia_ ," she forces between gritted teeth before another wave of pain crashes over her, the then ordering her to _not stop! Don't stop!_

"She said she's on her way!" Malia swallows, glances nervously at the nurse between Kira's legs, casts her eyes down.

" _You said that an hour ago!_ "

"Well! Well—I'm sorry! I can't make her _poof_ here, now can I, Kira?"

Tiny shocks of electricity shoot from the kitsune's hands. Malia flinches, bracing herself and trying to take some of Kira's pain away. At the left side of the bed, Kira is clutching Stiles' hands in a death grip. After the first shocks of electricity given during her first contractions, he now wears electrical safety gloves that don't help with preventing the broken hand bones he likely has now.

Sweat has begun to form on his forehead from the pain of his hands. Amidst the chaos, the sound of a phone vibrating can be faintly heard. Melissa McCall is patrolling the room. A second maternity nurse surveys the birth.

"It's going to be al—alright, Kit. Ly— _Lydiaaa said_ —" He breaks off as she squeezes his hands in another death grip. "—Called and said that she's on her way. Kira. Kira, please...!"

Another lick of electricity shoots from her fingers into his glove.

" _You're lying! You didn't pick up your phone!_ " she hollers.

"I'm not—I'm sorry. Sweetie. Honey. _Please_. Please, you need to stay calm and focus. Calm down. Lydia is coming—"

" _Don't_ you dare tell me to calm!" Her eyes flash orange, and he hushes up with a submissive, whimpered, _"yes_ _ma'am."_ She grips tighter, face contorting in agony. " _You're_ the cause of this~!"

The monitors fizz and crackle from the abnormal electrical surges.

Melissa coaches Kira to breath and to focus, breath and focus, breath and _push_ , breath and _push_ , to focus, breath and—

Kira's irises are still glowing orange and her hands still discharging faint licks of electricity when the nurse lifts a tiny, squirming body into the air.

Malia heaves in relief.

"Congratulations," she says in the warmest approximation she can muster, lined with subtle relief. "It's a girl!"

Kira releases Stiles' hand with a small squeeze, continues to heave for breath. The second maternity nurse carefully and wraps the tiny, squirming human in the blanket. Malia's nose wrinkles at the scent of blood. To her, the baby looks objectively terrible—bloody and covered in bodily fluids and the infant's face is scrunched up as if in annoyance, as if in discontent, irrational intolerance, and her screams are high pitched and shrill, akin to nails on chalkboard, a knife across glass, bone chilling. Malia squeezes her eyes shut, asks Kira if could let go of her hand now, and the other looks as if she's ready to scream at any moment.

The nurse lifts her head from between Kira's knees just as she cries out again.

"The other one is coming!"

Malia's neck whiplashes. "Wait—wo—a—another one?!"

" _Yes_ , Malia. We told you this a _long_ time ago," Stiles replies in haste.

Kira screams. She rhythmically breaths and pushes on command, squeezes Malia's hand in a death grip, breaks Stiles'.

The second baby is a boy and he's born completely silent. Kira knows, instinctively, that something is wrong before the nurses carry the baby away to another room. Kira protests even after the nurse leaves. Melissa remains at her side. Stiles hurries after the nurses, gets shut out a FACULTY ONLY room, and peers through the window at a trio of nurses crowding around, at having to pry the infant's little mouth open, and then there's wires and machines wheeled closer. Inside, there is intense fraught and panic.

Out in the waiting area, Scott hears only one newborn's cry followed Kira's frantic objections, and is able too put two together. Luckily, seconds later, another wail sounds in the hospital. Mr. Yukimura and Mr. Stilinski return, handing Scott a pre-made turkey club from the deli. He informs them of what he had heard.

When the nurses return to the maternity room, Kira jerks forward, her face glowing from a recent cry.

The bulbs inside the lamps have all exploded. Melissa leaves.

Malia is sitting one of the single guest chairs, texting on her cellphone. Her head snaps up to attention when they enter, then widen as each nurse show a smile.

Stiles is nursing his likely broken hand beside his wife.

The nurses approach the bed, each carrying a different colored swaddled blanket. The room erupts with the emotion of relief; Malia thinks the two are near crying when the tiny bundles are placed in Kira's arms. But she can't help but look, ease closer, stare and _gawk_ at the newborns. To her, they look pudgier and pinker than the Google Search images—Malia had never seen a human infant up close like this, and she feels deceived by the images she looked up, disorded, and contradicted. She leans over the iron railing, moving her nose closer, can see the dried fluids flaking their light skin. She sniffs.

Stiles presses a series of kisses into Kira's hair. "You did it," he whispers in her ear, kisses her cheeks, her eyebrow, her hairline. His nose holds a tinge of red.

The boy squirms. Stiles gently tugs away the blanket so Malia can have a look. The girl flinches in her sleep, sticks out a fat pink tongue; Stiles kisses her forehead. Both already have a thin layer of hair on their little heads that, without the coded blankets, would make it impossible to tell them apart.

Kira's grins and turns her face to meet her husband's. "Well, you helped. A little."

"Yeah, but you did all the heavy work."

By now, Malia is staring intently in the sleeping boy's face. Gives another sniff. Notices his thick eyelashes, that he has a small patch of black moles on his left cheek. Gives another sniff, finds herself growing accustomed to this new-baby smell.

Kira is the one who notices Malia's entranced head tilt. So, grinning, asks, "you wanna hold one of them?" She ignores Stiles' objecting, _"uh, not before me she's not_. _"_

Malia's doe eyes widen, she straightens, looks taken aback, and steps away from the bed railing. Her hands fly up in defense. "No," she repeats, nervous. "No. No, no, no, no. I can't. Kids don't like me, remember? I'm not good with them. They're going to cry _immediately_. And you don't want that."

Kira bounces the one in pink. "No, I doubt it." Kisses her tiny forehead. She doesn't move. "They're completely asleep."

Still, Malia shakes her head, refusing. Backs up to the empty chairs in the room.

One of the nurses asks Stiles about the hand he's still tending.

The couple is given a twin each to hold.

Malia excuses herself to the hallway to dial Lydia's number and to give the new parents privacy. Hearing a ringtone go off in the waiting area as hers ring, Malia follows it, where she finds Lydia conversing with Scott, her fuchsia colored phone jiggles in her hand, one heeled foot _tap-tap-tapping_. She's wearing lipstick that matches her phone case color. She tells that she's "been here for all of ten minutes and _no one_ has answered their phone! And I had this—this _sickening_ feeling that was _that_ feeling, and I thought it had to do with...them. How are they," she asks Malia. "How did it go?"

The werecoyote tells that they are fine and that the parents are having appropriate time with the twins.

Lydia exhales relief.

Malia's gaze is dazed. She spaces out. Fiddles with her own cellphone. Smacks it against her open palm. Slides her fingers across it, paying attention to the grooves and sleek plastic. Then, musing in a low tone, "they were so tiny..."

Scott vaguely squints.

Lydia doesn't hear and steps to Malia, pulling the werecoyote back. "Well," she begins removing her jacket. "She's been blowing up my phone all this time. And I'm here now. She better be ready for me." And she strides to the maternity room.

Minutes after Lydia enters and begin cooing over the twins, Melissa knocks, returning with Noah Stilinski in tears and Noshiko striding past everyone to "need to see her grandchildren! This is a once in a lifetime event!" The room fills with hovering grandparents, god parents, and balloons, flowers, Walgreen's checkout bags of diapers and baby hats and socks and onesies; packets of pacifiers—which Kira's going to need, because her parents surely did, Ken tells—and blankets and stuffed plushies and 5-hour energy drinks and two times the supplies they already have.

Names haven't been chosen yet, they inform. There are a few that are still up in the air but for the most part, the names Sawyer, Hanna, or Jhene are being tossed around for the girl; Lucas, Kai, or Gavin for the boy. There's a list Stiles pulls from the preparation bag they brought.

Malia is the first to speak up. "Not Gavin. That one's terrible."

Noshiko tells that Hana means flower in Japanese.

From bed, Kira watches the new grandparents bouncing the sleeping infants in their arms and marveling at the twins' hands. Noah and Ken are the obnoxious baby talking type. Noah mutters a joke about how he's been turned into a grandpa and is definitely getting old now, bouncing the baby girl.

Scott is taking selfies and photos of the newborns. "For Facebook memories," he says. Most will be posted later to the parents' Instagram.

Lydia is at Kira's side. She's the one who points out Scott's fondness over children, looking over in time to catch him give Stiles a heavy pat on the back, smiling with all teeth. It's genuine and proud. Lydia's attention swings to Malia watching from afar.

Ken and Noshiko huddle over the baby boy. Malia watches from afar.

Kira is nodding off to sleep when Stiles is inquired by a nurse to come along to have his hand inspected.

Years ago, she had been prepared to accept that she had been one of those with a mark but without a match—she kicks herself for it now.

Two foxes have just become four.

Hearing sniffling, Kira asks if Lydia is "alright?"

The strawberry blonde chides "of course I am. But it's about you today, boo. You must be tired."

Kira nods, eyes heavy.

Lydia pets her hair as Kira nods off to sleep.


End file.
